Tenney's lips again curled back.
"I ain't laid a finger on her," he snarled. "Anybody but a liar 'd tell you so."
"She has told me so," continued Raven. "I came to warn her I should complain of you and have you bound over to keep the peace. She said if I did that she would refuse to testify against you. She said she would rather"—here a slight bitterness came into his voice and, for an instant, he had a foolish satisfaction in reminding Tira of her unfriendliness in blocking him—"she would rather have me considered out of my mind than let you get your just deserts."
"Ah!" snarled Tenney. "I wa'n't born yesterday."
This interchange had had on Tira all the effect Raven could have wished. She started forward a step, with a murmured sound. But Tenney was unmoved.
"Now you know," said Raven, "you're not going to tell me I'm a liar. I draw the line at that. You'll have to drop your axe—that's a cowardly streak in you, Tenney, a mighty mean streak, that axe business—and I'll give you your punishment without waiting for judge or jury."
Tenney looked down at the axe frowningly, and the hand holding it sank to his side.
"Besides saying she wouldn't testify against you," Raven continued, "she refused to leave you. She is a foolish woman, but she's like most of them. They hang on to the beast that abuses 'em, God knows why. But the rest of us won't let you off so easy. Don't think it, for a minute. The next time she's seen wandering round the woods with her baby and you after her, yelling like a catamount, you're going to be hauled up and, even if she won't testify, there's enough against you to make it go hard with you."
Tenney ceased staring at the axe and looked up at Raven. Was it hatred in the eyes? The gleam in them flickered, in a curious way, cross currents of strange light. He tried to speak, gulped, and moistened his dry lips. Then he managed it:
"What business is it o' yourn?"